Comfortably Numb
by gabby silang
Summary: Old adversaries defrost. Eventually Syd/Sark.
1. 1

Author: gabby silang  
  
Summary: Old adversaries defrost. Eventually Syd/Sark.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters of 'Alias' are, sadly, not mine. What they do here is, and the original characters are, but all that is canon belongs to JJ & Co. Sue me if you wish, I have no money.  
  
Feedback: Turns that frown upside down! gabby_silang@hotmail.com  
  
Archive: Cover Me, Hybris, take with impunity. All others if they ask nicely.  
  
Comfortably Numb  
  
It will never be enough for her. All the precaution, the assurances, her handler telling her to break a leg and meaning it. Nothing will make her forget that the safety nets are made of gossamer, that her past successes were two parts luck, one part expensive equipment, and her handler is reassuring himself so that he can say he tried his best.  
  
He is not like Vaughn. He is kind, and cracks quiet jokes, and speaks in a soothing monotone in her earpiece, but he is not like Vaughn. Vaughn didn't wear beige, and his eyes were stormy, Atkins is always in khaki and his eyes are just like hers. Only in color-Vaughn's matched hers in fear, in something else. She'll never know.  
  
Atkins means well, but he knows that she sees him and every minute wishes they'd never met. But he's kind. And he cracks quiet jokes to distract her from the khaki and to focus on his hands as they hold out a picture to her.  
  
"I'm told you know him."  
  
A man, attractive, healthy, blonde, sharp features, sharp expression, caught looking straight at the photographer, fully aware.  
  
"Sark." She considers his eyes, the line of his shoulders, "He's gotten older."  
  
"A bit," sidelong glance, a flash of teeth, "You're not in your twenties anymore either, Agent Bristow."  
  
Her thirties she doesn't mind. The title makes her feel old.  
  
"Call me Sydney," for the hundredth time, "And what's the intrepid Mr. Sark up to these days? No good?"  
  
"One would think so, but it seems he's getting soft in his old age," she allows is to fall flat and he continues, "He received some intel that we, well, we wouldn't have otherwise," what a surprise, "A summit of underground arms manufacturers and dealers will go down in Mexico five days from now," another file, dossiers of old men with young ideas, "Any decisions or deals they make would no doubt be of consequence to the world as a whole. Even assassins and rogue spies."  
  
He always tries to measure her reaction, it never takes.  
  
"He's contacted the Agency?"  
  
"Yes, he wants to cooperate. The terms are being drawn up as we speak," he rushes on, "I know, you're thinking we're crazy to even discuss doing this with a known assassin and enemy of the state, but the more we cooperate, the more we get out of the deal. And we wouldn't have known about it at all if he hadn't told us. I'm not saying we can trust him-"  
  
"It's not a problem."  
  
"It's not.? This man was your main adversary not too long ago, Agent Bristow. I didn't expect you to be so compliant when asked to work with him." He's tilting his head, something Vaughn never really did. It's kind of cute.  
  
"It's been done before. They're probably using a looser version of the terms worked out with Derevko," she remembers now, "And he told me once that he wouldn't betray me. He respects the work I do. In his sick little psychology that's worth something."  
  
"So you're okay with this?" Almost like he wants her to disagree. He must have had a dramatic and moving defense scripted out.  
  
"It's fine with me."  
  
"Well, good," a shuffling of papers to reveal a flight itinerary, private planes "You leave tonight. Both of you."  
  
A minor double-take, "Cancun?"  
  
"A perk of the job for you, and some tourist-provided cover for them," Atkins shrugs a little, grins a little, reminds her of Will, but with government-issue everything, "Not that any of these guys could pass for college kids."  
  
"What's the objective? What am I supposed to do with them?"  
  
He almost blushes.  
  
"Well, that's another thing being decided as we speak. You'll be briefed on the plane. And Jack is covering for you at SD-6 as soon as they start missing you. Sloane hasn't had any new ops planned for the next few days, and we'll hope it stays that way."  
  
"Who's flying with us? Who's doing the briefing?"  
  
"What? Oh, Sark is. Flying and briefing." And now he looks away.  
  
"Oh. Well. Isn't that something." 


	2. 2

The plane would be cramped if it weren't for the lack of passengers. As it is, Sydney only feels slightly claustrophobic, more due to the proximity to her companion than the small cabin and the closed windows that the CIA had insisted on.  
  
It's been 20 minutes and Sark hasn't briefed her yet, hasn't said anything beyond a cordial greeting, and she's not about to ask. He's settled himself across from her, by the mini-bar, with a glass of something white and he's rebelliously cracked open a window. He takes a sip and grimaces. The CIA is cheap.  
  
He's different and she can't put her finger on it, though it hasn't been that long. There is everything she recognizes-every inch of him assured, refined enough to be called confident and not cocky, the misleading languor of repose, arm on the armrest but not truly leaning back, eyes scanning the cabin every few minutes, scanning the view outside, no doubt assuring himself that they are following the agreed upon flight path. Still easy on the eyes. She'd admitted it before, no reason to hesitate now. He wore a signature tailored suit, but had draped the jacket over the back of the seat and rolled up his sleeves. The cabin is a bit hot, he has very nice forearms, and long fingers that make her flicker to the thought that he should have been an artist, wonder if he'd claim that he is.  
  
Perhaps he's missing a bit of his old energy, that spark that had given both of them the audacity to chit chat on ops when they'd run into each other like doctors from different wards meeting on the elevator. She can rose-tint it now, pretend the chiropractor and the oncologist would kick each other's asses and scurry away.  
  
Vaughn never liked it when she ran into Sark; eventually he said his name with more contempt than Syd could muster. There was a look he'd get in his eyes reserved for when he talked about Sark. As if he knew of something awful that was bound to happen and that he could not prevent it.  
  
Sark's looking at her from an angle and through boyish lashes.  
  
"I heard about your former handler. That was unfortunate." Looking for a response.  
  
"That was a while ago." Meeting his eyes.  
  
"Yes, I see that."  
  
"I don't need your pity, Sark."  
  
"Did I offer it?" she looks away and knows he scored a point, "Although I can't tell you I'm glad to see you still working for those buffoons. You could achieve so much more-"  
  
"Shove it, Andrew."  
  
He smiles genuinely, more than a little disarming.  
  
"Gladly," the wine is put down, "Would you like to know what we're flying towards?"  
  
'Like to' is not a label she uses lightly.  
  
"What have you got?" Nearly a statement.  
  
He sighs a little, as if she's the burden he's dragging along, and she almost puts him in his place. He starts talking before she can decide between words and violence.  
  
"Just a bit more than you do, I'm sure. You've received the dossiers of the people involved. The big names are only four in dealing-Headon, Matsushita, Ramos, and Edge-and three in manufacturing-Nuejahr, Babiarza, and Gakovitch. The rest are small fish, not worth our time."  
  
"And who decided that?"  
  
"I did." Obviously. He catches the roll of her eyes, "I know these people, Ms. Bristow, I've worked with them."  
  
Isn't that reassuring.  
  
"So what makes you think you can waltz in there now and leave them none the wiser?"  
  
"They still believe me to be working with them."  
  
"Well, doesn't that put me in a comfortable state of mind?" She hadn't expected him to get her angry, it comes on uncensored, "I'm sure you found it easy enough to swagger your way through the Agency, but you are not going to find me as easy to play. I come to this with the expectation that you'll do exactly whatever it was that you agreed to do, then walk away with four new arms deals and three new manufacturers in your pocket."  
  
"Ms. Bristow, Sydney," her mouth is half open when he corrects himself and she's half wondering why, "That would be a very hard thing for even me to accomplish. Seeing as our main objective is to terminate any attendee who does not agree to leave willingly."  
  
She wishes she could be surprised at that.  
  
"Let me see the objectives."  
  
He reaches around and pulls a single, folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket, something she'd never have pegged him to do, and hands is to her wordlessly. His thumb is on her palm for a moment and his skin is softer than hers. She reads quickly, memorizing, speculating from the patterns that Kendall has written it. When she looks up Sark is studying her intently.  
  
"What?"  
  
Shaking his head, thoughtful, "I'd heard about your more recent operations of this same nature, but I never truly expected you to take to them quite so. . . naturally."  
  
"You get used to it. Of all people, you know that." Meant to sting.  
  
"Yes, but I don't think you do," he considers her, "You are not your mother. At your worst moments, you never were." He's leaning forward, arms on knees, hands dangling, less space between them than she's felt in years. She thinks she might miss fighting him, it would make sense that she would.  
  
"You didn't see my worst moments."  
  
He gives her that, she watches the collar of his shirt, and he looks out the window every few minutes to check their flight path. 


	3. 3

The sky is rosy and the sea spotted with diamonds as they touch down on a small airstrip just a block from the hotel. Like most resorts, it's on the curving peninsular coast, giving the illusion of an island paradise-- continental breakfast and room service included. The air is full of salt, sunscreen, and papaya; Sydney allows herself to pause halfway down the airplane steps, breathing in the tropics. Even at dusk the colors are striking, vivid, rich like she's never known North America to be. It's a tourist trap, but this is as close to the real Quintana Roo that she expects to get, so she'll savor just a little.  
  
"Are you actually going to keep moving, or hail I call a taxi to take us down the street?"  
  
Sark is lurking behind her, eyes on the sea and voice bored. She doesn't spare him a word, but steps down and unlocks the luggage compartment to pull out her bag, starts toward the towering hotel, and leaves him to get his own suitcase and follow. She swears she can hear him smirking at her.  
  
The air is alive, and so is the street. Faces, most not Mexican, bustle by on both sides, laughing, going to the beach, to the lagoon, to restaurants and cafes. They're on vacation, something she always said she'd do the same way these people said they'd one day write a novel or trace their family tree back to the Mayflower. She weaves, makes eye contact, smiles, establishing herself as a traveler who's awed and jovial, perhaps walking a little too fast.  
  
All the hotels here have pretentious names, theirs the most of all. "Presidente Inter-Continental Cancun" in bold golden letters looms over a driveway that's nearly wider than the building it approaches. Flags flap cheerily among ferns and baby palm trees-American, Mexican, others from the region. The wheels of her suitcase click along behind her until it's taken away by the doorman as she enters. He takes it to wait patiently by the ornately decorated elevator, past an endless lounge of chairs and loveseats too expensive to actually sit on.  
  
She stands around by a giant marble pillar, irritated that they were sent here days before the op could even begin, annoyed that she doesn't know what name to check in under, mildly irked at every obvious tourist there, wondering if they'll have separate rooms, worried about how little it matters to her.  
  
Sark takes his time entering, chatting with the doorman in Spanish, looking nearly pleasant. She puts on her sociable face and stalks over to interrupt.  
  
"Excuse me," she matches her accent to his, "So sorry to break in, but I'm rather eager to see the view before it gets dark out. Would you mind terribly if I stole him away?"  
  
A little bow and wave routine, "Of course, Senora, he is all yours!"  
  
"Thanks ever so!"  
  
She pulls him away by sheer force of will, refusing to touch him.  
  
"Want to get right to hiding away? You do recall that we're here for a reason?" He's meandering, going vaguely towards the check-in desk.  
  
"That man thought we were married." A hiss, like how her grandmother used to talk about cancer.  
  
"What gives you that idea?"  
  
"He called me Senora. What did you tell him?"  
  
"That the weather was lovely, I'd heard the mezzanine floor's restaurant is first class, and I can't wait to get onto the golf course," he pulls a wallet out of his bag, paying her minimal attention, "I can't be blamed for other people's assumptions."  
  
She drops it as he comes to the desk. She goes to wait with their bags while he checks in, overhearing "Master Suite" and "jacuzzi" and idly wondering what kind of swimwear he has, the idea completely foreign to her, the entire situation disconcertingly foreign. She feels she should be racing him now, but he's behind her and maddeningly calm about it, asking about room service, phone jacks. Domestic, she articulates by the time he joins her and they enter the elevator, and probably navy trunks.  
  
The bellboy rides up with them and Sark doesn't say a word, so she watches the numbers light up, go dark, making a list of things to keep herself busy with during the next four days--crossing off windsurfing in favor or bugging the conference halls, trading sunbathing for hacking into the reservations list. It takes up the time nicely, always does, and soon they're in the room, and she's tipping the young man, kicking off her shoes, and sitting in the nearest chair.  
  
He arches an eyebrow from where he's flipping open a laptop.  
  
"Being tired upon arrival is never a good sign," for a split second he sounds truly caring, but it wears off quickly, "More proof of the slave- drivers you work for doing just what-"  
  
"Stop insulting my employers." Half-hearted.  
  
"You never hesitated to do the same to mine."  
  
"That's different."  
  
"Because these are yours."  
  
"Because they got us this job."  
  
That earns a quick smile, cruel, more like her memories of him.  
  
"If you'll recall, Agent Bristow, I got us this job," intent on the computer screen, "Something your friends at the CIA would never have been able to arrange without a considerable amount of assistance."  
  
Seven years ago she would have put up a fight, showed him what's what from here to Tijuana. Seven years ago she would never have been in this situation. Right now she's just too tired.  
  
"You know what," rising, grabbing her suitcase and walking to the first likely door, "Screw it, badmouth them all you want. Get a drink or two in me and I'll probably join you," pausing to consider the view, momentarily stunned at how the reddening sky outlines the horizon, how it outlines his form by the balcony window, "But they sure do book a hell of a suite."  
  
He doesn't look up from the screen. Blue-white light reflects off his eyes as they scan left to right over, over.  
  
"I booked this."  
  
She pauses in the doorway, now open and revealing a generously sized bedroom and another incredible vista out the window. She knows there is more to say. She's staring and eventually he looks up to meet her gaze, neither particularly wanting to say anything.  
  
"Goodnight." She finally settles on, and closes the door behind her, muffling his reply. Something about dreams. 


	4. 4

4.

He's gone from the suite by the time she steps out of the shower in the morning.  Sydney checks all the rooms to make sure—his computer still on the center table by the balcony, suitcase at the foot of his bed, sheets untouched.  He'd told her once that he was an insomniac.  Something like that.

_In __London__, the Saudi embassy, well past __midnight__ and raining.__  She'd just made it to the roof to find him there, alone for once, already holding the disks she was sent to retrieve, neatly repairing a hole in the skylight._

_"Isn't it past your bedtime, __Sark__?"  _

_Caught unarmed, she took her time in assessing him.  Rappelling equipment beside him and very obviously packed heat in an ankle holster.  She very much needed those disks.  Under-the-table deals to skirt OPEC regulations. _

_"I never sleep, Ms. Bristow.  It's what keeps me ahead of you." _

_He stood fluidly and gave her his own once-over.  Drew the same conclusions._

She considers looking through his suitcase, knows he'll know if she does, decides there will be plenty of time to do that later.  

There are other things.  Prep work that the CIA has heaped on them, claiming ignorance and Sark's inhibition towards full disclosure.  There are room numbers to discover, then to bug, phones to tap, cameras to be placed in the conference hall, she still has seven dossiers to read, and she finds a stack a paper next to Sark's portable printer.  

Hotel blueprints of all relevant rooms, even a few she wouldn't have bothered with, a full reservations list, a tech sheet inventorying bugs and wire taps placed throughout the building, a diagram of the conference hall, detailing placement of surveillance cameras.

_"Not far ahead enough."  Audacious words and they both knew it, but he played along.  She stalked a bit closer, watched his hands, where he was looking.  _

_"I never expect less than a run for my money from you," eyes darted to where her rope was still anchored on the roof ledge, a challenge emerging in his stance "Are you feeling game this fine evening?" There was water running along his cheekbones, trickling off his hair, pooling at their feet._

_She was even with him when he made a dash for the ledge, close enough to make a good leap at the backs of his legs, bringing them down hard, the loot they were both chasing flying through the dripping air and into an impenetrable night.  He twisted at the hips, throwing her onto her back, slid wetly behind her to hook his arms around her shoulders.  The weather was making her complacent, and she didn't struggle much at first, feeling not quite unsafe.  She relaxed, waited for him to let his guard down._

_"Nice job, butterfingers." _

_"Yes, clearly I should take all the blame for this," not loosening in the least.  _

She thinks that maybe she'll check out the beach.  Changes into a hastily-bought and flowery swimsuit and wraps a sarong around her hips, toting a Carlos Fuentes novel and an oversized towel to complete the image.

There are children building a castle and a few older women swimming against the tide.  The sand isn't empty of people, but it's not as packed as it will be in the afternoon.  The texture is almost silky-- soft and pliant under her toes, just supportive enough to walk or run comfortably on.  

So she tosses down her towel, her book, and wispy skirt, and she runs.  First down to the wet sand where the water sweeps over it quiet and smooth; foaming turquoise that warms her up to her ankles with each wave.  Then along the edge of the ocean like a tightrope walker, weaving to keep her fleeting footprints along the line where the ground changes in color and consistency.  She runs until Sark calls out her name and she stops and turns to see him, propped up on an elbow, a white button-down abandoned beside him in the sand, bare footed, lounging as far from the other beach-dwellers as he could get.

She'd like to think he looks incongruous here, but the sun, the intensely azure sky, and the crisp color of the sand surrounding them match the stark white of the shirt thrown down beside him, the mild tan of his pants, leaving his skin almost glowing in reflection, the lines of his chest and stomach highlighted in the brightness of it all.  Looking like this, relaxed, he is natural here, as natural as all black was while he was dark and clandestine.

_He didn't let go and didn't relax and she was becoming aware of the feel of his shirt and hers, both soaked, sliding together over skin, of just how hard his chest and stomach were, and just where her ass was fitting so snugly.  _

_"Are you going to let me go or do I have to make this more painful for you?"_

_"Do you plan to behave yourself when I release you?"_

_She laughed shortly, short of breath, "I don't make promises to liars."_

_She felt him smile behind her, the way his mouth moved by her ear, "I'm delighted."_

_He broke the hold suddenly and got to his feet before she could adjust to the draft at her back, and he used her shaky standing to knock her down again—a hand barely brushing her collarbone and a knee at the back of her knee.  She jerked a leg in the fall, catching him in the side, sending him reeling.  They could start out cordial, but somehow they were always brought back to this—the visceral truth of body against body, without restraint, hurting and being hurt.  She got up faster the second time and reached through the rain for the back of his neck, lacing her fingers through the short hair there and bringing his head down to meet her knee, then throwing him to the floor.  That night he won, righting himself quickly enough to knock the wind out of her with a swift, well-placed kick, water splashing around her as she fell at his feet, and he stayed just long enough to hear her call after him._

_"__Sark__, you-"_

_From the top of the ledge, "Please, Ms. Bristow, call me Andrew."_

She parts with the ocean, approaches him, watches him watching her, and wishes for her sarong in a sudden bout of modesty. 

"What are you doing here?"  It's the easiest question.

"Becoming the first Irishman in all of history to tan well," she looks him over again and can believe it, "Also keeping an eye on our first attendee," pulling a photo from under his crumpled shirt, "Lilith Neujahr.  Arrived this morning," she's about 40 and gorgeous, of a hard-to-place ethnicity and intelligence that's alive in her eyes, "I was considering how to say hello."

"So you know her already?"

"Vaguely, from a contract I negotiated with her former employer years ago.  A very refined woman, and not easy to get along with," sparing Sydney a glance before looking back at Neujahr's swimming form, "Let me handle her."

There's no need to argue, really. She starts to walk off, then remembers, turns back awkwardly. 

"Sark.  Um, you know, thanks.  For doing all that work last night.  I appreciate it." 

He looks at her now, takes in the grudging sincerity of her expression, the curve of her hip where the swimsuit ends, the beads of sweat formed on her forehead from the sun and the exertion.  

"For God's sake, Sydney," he looks abruptly back to Lilith, "Call me Andrew." 

_It was not until later, walking down a cold, damp street in search of the Underground, that it occurred to her that she ought to be dead.  But he'd never touched his gun.  _


	5. 5

5.  
  
She'd kept herself busy for most of the day, running along the beach as far as it was open, running back. He was gone then, not even an imprint left in the sand.  
  
She'd eaten lunch alone at a street-side stand-- sticky rice and unripe mango that had left her feeling refreshed and heavy. She'd gone into the city and bought bright, tasteless sundresses, the kind that end in tassels, and sandals with endless straps winding up her calves. She tried to be a tourist, but the scenic vistas left her small and alone. Sark wasn't in the suite when she returned. She'd finished reading the dossiers, Lilith Neujahr's among them. Her photo wasn't there.  
  
It's 7:30 when he walks through the door, locking it carefully behind him, finds her flipping through blueprints, the television muted on a Spanish news network. He nods to her, barely, and goes into his room where she hears closet doors opening, closing, clothes being shucked and replaced. It's reminding her of another life, somewhere safe with Danny, and she flips the sound back on, the foreign language bringing her back to why this isn't there. Sark emerges in smartly pressed pants the color of sand and an untucked black button-down that doesn't quite cover his biceps.  
  
She watches him search for his shoes before speaking.  
  
"Going out on the town tonight?"  
  
A dress that she hadn't seen him holding flutters like a flag through the air to her.  
  
"As soon as you put that on we're going downstairs to the restaurant on the mezzanine. Neujahr is dining there tonight."  
  
Dinner with Sark. Her stomach is tight, she feels she's swimming with sharks, bedding down with lions. She doesn't bother to make him ask instead of demand, knows it's not worth the effort or the exasperated look that he has a trigger finger on.  
  
"Who is she dining with?"  
  
"No one," he's sitting down to tie his shoes, another thing she never thought she'd see him do, something it hadn't occurred to her that he had to do. He catches her watching, "Get dressed. We should arrive before her."  
  
Alone in her room she holds the dress out in front of her. It's dark, navy, long, understated, sexy. She sees him buying it for her, fingering the silky fabric, feeling it run over his hands like murky water, seeing her in his own mind's eye, spinning her around to view every angle, finally approving. She dresses quickly, slipping on the only pair of heels she's brought, stepping back into the common room.  
  
"Let's go, then," she says, but he's already got his back to her, halfway out the door.  
  
He stands close to her in the elevator. He's radiating something and it makes her arm tingle right where they're almost grazing each other's elbows. He speaks quietly to her while pinning a wire below his collar.  
  
"You should know-- you are Elyse O'Donnell, my traveling companion. We met in graduate school and have corresponded since. In case she asks."  
  
She's not confused for long.  
  
"So when you said that Neujahr was dining with no one, you meant with no one besides us."  
  
"I thought that was obvious."  
  
"Of course, you would."  
  
They stand facing the door, and rolling past the third floor is occurs to her to ask, "You're going to assert that you went to my grad school? And you expect someone who already knows you to believe this?"  
  
"There are some facades that I've maintained for a good long time. One never knows when they could become useful," he pauses, she thinks he smiles a bit, "And if you merely meant to insult my intelligence, I'd remind you that I at least finished graduate school."  
  
She snorts, not at all ladylike, "You know you're going downhill when you believe your own cover stories."  
  
He tenses beside her, only for a moment, "Believe what you will," the elevator chimes their arrival before she could get a word in, "But do try to be civil."  
  
He's got his hand, almost uncomfortably warm given the weather, resting on the curve of her hip, guiding her along, and all she can do is smile, blithe.  
  
"Aren't I always?" She switches accents as they make their way to the restaurant, weaving politely through the dinner crowd of shined shoes, too- bright colors, and a couple appalling paisley ties.  
  
A waiter leads them to a window-side table set for three where even the empty place settings smell of fruit and spices. Sark is speaking Spanish again, ordering drinks with jarringly perfect pronunciation. Somehow it doesn't fit. Like his open, easy expression, his arm over the back of his chair. He's seen Neujahr entering and he performs for her, hand closing casually over Syd's so that she'll lean in to hear him whisper.  
  
"Go upstairs after dinner. She won't talk shop with you here." He stands to shake the older woman's hand, offer her a seat and introductions. "Lilith, this is Elyse who I was telling you about. Ellie, Lilith is an old colleague of mine who I ran into on the beach this morning."  
  
"So good to meet you, Elyse. Andrew spoke so highly of you." Neujahr's voice is smooth, rich, her hand cold and soft when Sydney shakes it. She's beautiful.  
  
"Did he really?" Syd places her hand over his this time, invading his space, "He does prattle on sometimes, doesn't he?" He smiles tightly at her sparkling eyes and she drops it, sits back, "So are you also here on holiday," not waiting for an answer, "Such a gorgeous country, wouldn't you say?"  
  
There is more chit-chat. Lilith does most of the talking. To Andrew. Makes an obvious effort to include Elyse. Sark hardly says a word, listens attentively enough. South American politics. History of the region. Mayan sites she's seen. Sark's eyes never leave Neujahr, but he keeps touching the hand that Syd keeps on the table. On an emphasized word. A shared chuckle. A striking description of a trek to a ruined temple. She tries not to flinch and blathers prettily back at Lilith-shopping and that evening's sunset.  
  
The food comes, and before she's at her last bite he's squeezing her hand lightly, shooting her a single glance, looking around as if still hungry.  
  
He's kicking her out. She could kill him with the soup spoon. She stretches conspicuously. He and Lilith are having some kind of telepathic conversation.  
  
"Well that was lovely," loud, grating, very London, "Wasn't that lovely, Andrew? I wonder if one could buy these ingredients back home."  
  
Neujahr starts a little, gets an apologetic look from Sark. Forgive my companion, it says, she is a complete idiot. Sydney pulls at her dress.  
  
"I'm sure you could order them directly." Lilith puts on a gracious tone.  
  
"Oh, what a good idea! I must look into that."  
  
For a long moment they all sit silent, peering into the darkness beyond the tall windows, tracing outlines of surf and long, swaying leaves. The women fidget. Sark finishes his wine. He hasn't let go of her hand.  
  
Their waiter arrives and inquires about their dessert orders, eyes hungry for tips and praise.  
  
"None for me," disappointing him, "Couldn't hold another forkful. Shall we turn in for the night, Andrew?" Ignoring Lilith.  
  
"I'll follow shortly. I'd like to stay for some tea." He turns away to order.  
  
Only Lilith smiles, offers a short goodbye.  
  
"And I love your dress, Elyse."  
  
"Thank you." Quietly, then exits. 


End file.
